New Arshi TS: Moirai's Gambit COMPLETED| Part 3| Page 11| 9/10

Moirai's Gambit - Part un

Year 1980

Baharon phool barasao mera mehboob aaya hai, mera mehboob aaya.

Sitaaron raagini gaao, mera mehboob aaya hai, mera mehboob aaya hai.

By now his ears should have become blase about the daily affliction in multiple installments from past one week. By now he should have gotten used to the screeching cacophonous vocals of sundry locally hired singers clamoring to be heard over the riotous din of human and instrument sounds, by now he should have learnt the song played over and over in every Baaraat he had been witness to till date, by heart

By now, he should have accepted his asininity and fallen on his knees in front of Moirai and begged for mercy. Accepted that his fears had been imbecile and unfounded and that if he failed to find her, he and self would be irreconcilable. He shifted uncomfortably in his bed, sweating heavily in November and covered his head under the pillow to cut out the bedlam that befell his ears.

She- he remembered her face from two years ago as if it were yesterday that he had begrudgingly held the train ticket from Mumbai to Kanpur. She wasn't anything extraordinary, her plain sky-blue chicken kurti was visibly faded from repeated washing, her maroon travel bag looked even older with one side appearing damp with what must be water from a leaking bottle inside. Relatives in railway, he had decided immediately for she did not look like the kind that traveled in first class on a regular basis.

"Shit, I must have not closed the dhakkan properly." she muttered as she placed the bag under her seat holding its wet side. It was then that he had noticed her face, strands that came out loose from her braid covered her forehead, the longer ones falling over her shoulder and her braid easily reaching till her hips. Kohl in her eyes was slightly smudged at the corners from perspiration that waiting at the railway station on a hot and humid Mumbai afternoon ensues. And he had noticed her eyes. Bright, luminescent, attentive yet dreamy at the same time, her eyes danced as she noticed her surroundings, grinned sheepishly when she plopped down in her seat and settled on him curiously.

"Where are you going?" she had asked.

He had prevented the chuckle from rolling out at the yet again strengthened notion of nosy Indian co passengers. "Kanpur." he had maintained indifference in his monotone.

"Great, so I won't be alone in this prison tonight." she had exclaimed in unconcealed delight.

"Excuse me?" he asked in the uncomfortable silence fallen after.

"This dabba." she said pointing with her index finger around, "feels like I am cut off from the world."

"There are windows." he did not understand why was he even a part of this conversation but said anyway.

"Oh no, that's only a short respite, I'll soon be bored with the scenery outside. Objects - they aren't as interesting as humans. This..." she used both her hands and with all her fingers pointed at the floor in what appeared to be dejection, "is not how train journey should be. You cannot hear what's the conversation going in the adjacent two compartments, you cannot smell the various aam and neembu achars of the co-passengers, you don't get to know people."

"Excuse me? What people?" he hadn't heard anything as ridiculous as that, at least during insipid travels.

"Co passengers, who else? Train is the best place for this you know, many people meet as strangers and end up being friends for life. And sometimes you find distant relatives you have long lost touch with, it has happened twice with me. I was talking to this Uncle sitting opposite me while travelling from Pune to Mumbai, he turned out to be my distant Mama, my mother's second cousin who had been ousted from the family when he had eloped with his girlfriend." she chortled, he stared.

"And you know what, my parents' rishta had been fixed in a train." she sounded proud as if she was the one to have fixed it.

This was the moment when he had finally given up on the hopes of enjoying his solitude, he knew she wouldn't stop until she had described all the Uncles and Aunts she had met that her family had purged for elopement, theft or murder and had recounted her parents' wedding from the color and font of invitation card to the songs the band had played in her father's baaraat. After a couple of hours he had begun to suspect the boundaries of her tales conveniently extending to apocryphal.

Unbeknownst to him, his monosyllabic replies had turned to full sentences and frequent from the initial few and far in between. The trend had dwindled when more than her talks, she had begun to interest him. Being in conversation was good, he got ample opportunity to stare into her hazel eyes or the tiny of her nose or the fullness of her mouth. To notice the darkness of her hair and the lightness of her skin.

He remembered it all, clear and vivid, even her habit of folding one leg beneath the other and swinging the free one down from her seat, her fingers that often fiddled with her dopatta and pushed the stray strands away from her face as she buzzed like a hyperactive bee.

Who could believe it had been two years, and that it was the only time he had seen her physically before him.

He held the idea of waking up from this reverie to reality and in great disrelish but got up and dragged his feet to the door being banged by his friend.

"Why are you still in your pyjama?" Akash asked irritably, "the baaraat is ready to move, and you had promised to come along."

He stared at the marble floor, contemplating an answer.

"Are you unwell?" his friend's irritation soon changed to concern.

He shook his head in reply, and squirmed as the baaraat's band came in a fifty meter radius.

Jiski biwi gori uska bhi bada naam hai, jiski biwi gori uska bhi bada naam hai... kamare me bithalo bijli ka kya kaam hai, mere angane mein tumhara kya kaam hai.

"Won't he just shut up?" he cried as he winced again with the band's volume assuming a higher notch.

Akash smirked and placed his palm on his shoulder, "get ready man, I'll be waiting for you. We'll go by car to save you the torture." he said and waited for a moment contemplating his next words but noticing the emptiness in the former's eyes all he did was to nod, "since you haven't made me privy to the real purpose of your stay here in Kanpur, I'd only hope that you soon find whatever you have been looking for."

"Thanks." Arnav smiled wanly and shut the door behind him with a click.

"Going to Kanpur? Why?"

"Why now?"

"What brings you here?"

"To meet someone?"

"Business?"

"Looking for a girl?"

"C'mon, you were always the first to balk at marriage."

Faces and prying eyes, and then the flood of invasive questions, all of which he prevaricated. It was a disconcertingly curious world, at times he feverishly looked for a corner to hide. "Isn't a man free to go wherever he wishes to." he had supplied as an answer and let their curiosity to fester. This had always been one of his many charms.

He stood beneath the cold shower,

It rained, and we were out to get drenched... I saw people running for shade, I wonder why. There is nothing as blissful as the cold, pure drops from heaven kissing our skin... cleansing.

Rains are harbingers of happy times, bearers of fortunate tidings. I find it ironical to see people running away, trying to evade, it is as if they are running away from their own happiness.

He recollected the lines of her final letter to him, he hadn't known then that it would not be followed by another the next week.

He had sat down on his desk, like all the times after having read her letter at least five times, to compose a reply. Where in he attempted to pour his heart into paper, just like she did, the only variation being this one would never reach the addressed.

When I see rain from my window, I imagine you. I imagine you getting drenched, your long hair open and splayed across your shoulders, dripping. I imagine my fingers in it. I imagine kissing all the drops from heaven that have found sojourn on your skin... I imagine... He had stopped, folded and put it away in one of the drawers of his desk like every other time.

Maybe he was no different from the ironic crowd; he too was running away from his own happiness.

He toweled his damp hair and slipped into trousers. He was dressed impeccably in five minutes.

The song outside had changed to Le jayenge le jaayege dil wale dulhaniya le jaayege

As he pulled his blazer, he once again felt the papers in his waistcoat. Some of her letters, the ones he held dearest of all. We never realize their worth when we have them, we take them for granted. It is only when they are gone, the void left behind threatens to engulf our very existence.

He sat in the car, observed the rambunctious, anonymous Baaraatis. They danced to the beats, young and old, danced uncaring of the world around, uncaring of the snide remarks their untrained moves invited. He gathered, if she had been in his place, she would have joined them in this carnival.

"I'll write to you." when she had said it two years ago as they hurriedly exchanged mailing addresses standing on the overbridge of Kanpur Junction, he knew it wasn't a formal statement, her eyes had held promise.

When it was his turn to return the favor, he knew again that his nod had not betrayed his eagerness.

She had kept her promise, every week there was the similar yellow envelope, a ruled sheet of paper that bore words in a neat, petite, cursive handwriting. They always ended with a reply soon, undeterred by his noncompliance. He had become habitual of receiving them, reading them several times in a week, many times before he fell asleep each day, sometimes holding the paper close.

But he never had the courage to send a reply, fearful that he'd reveal too much about his feelings for her, fearful that if she did not reciprocate, he'd be broken and more fearful that she might stop writing to him and misunderstand his intentions.

He knew he had fallen for her, the day he had seen her, the night when she had fallen asleep in the seat opposite him and he hadn't been able to sleep a wink.

Two months ago his fears had yielded and that too without any intervention from his side, or maybe exactly because of his non-intervention. Her letters had stopped.

Had she given up on him? Had she been dejected due to his unresponsiveness? What an idiot he had been, there she had told him about everything transpiring in her life and he hadn't even had the courtesy to express how much her epistles mattered to him. He could have been formal, he could have written just a short note, or send her gifts. All he had done were two curt thanks scribbled for the two birthday cards she had sent him. How she knew the date, he had no idea and he had never asked for her birth date.

After a month and another two weeks of agony and bereftness, the empty letter box save a few official mails had jeered at him. The silence was deafening. The pangs of separation unbearable. He had then, sat down on the same desk and written. Written about the time gone, written about the two years, about her letters, about his fears, about his vulnerability, about life, about all he thought of her words, about everything that came to his mind. He had been up all night, typing away on the brand new electronic typewriter, imported from USA, till the heat generated caused his palms to sweat.

When he posted it to her address of Kanpur the next morning, it wasn't a letter anymore, it was a parcel. The parcel that was delivered four evenings later at his address, the confused post man telling that the person to whom it was addressed was not living there anymore and the people now acquiring the house were cooperative enough to hand it over immediately.

He had then made his mind. He had spent the next week, using his contacts and trying to find where she was currently living, when the exercise hadn't been fruitful, he found himself in her city. Kanpur. Akash -an old acquaintance had helped him find a good hotel near her locality in this busy wedding season. Tonight he had cajoled him into agreeing to attend this stupid wedding with him.

He had long gotten unused to such gatherings and places. When a man of his height and handsomeness and clothes that screamed elite entered the venue, many heads had turned. Curious eyes had followed him and when his friend introduced him around, he was met with disarming smiles. He wanted to get out as soon as possible.

"If you are feeling so uncomfortable Arnav, we'll just congratulate my cousin who's the groom, and then I'll send my car and driver to drop you at your hotel. It's just that seeing you at his wedding would be an honor for my brother, he works in your company. You were the one to recruit him a few months ago." his friend informed.

A whiff of premonition was felt deep inside that he willfully ignored at the prospect of getting out of this purgatory at the first chance.

He nodded brusquely to the greetings offered as he made his way to the stage. "Kid brother has gotten himself such a beautiful wife." said Akash over his shoulder. He looked in their direction disinterestedly.

It was her.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Two years later.

There was spark in her eyes that mirrored her hopes, burning bright. Her lips whispered a shy smile, her cheeks reflected the crimson of her lehenga. She presented a stark contrast to the woman he had met on train that fateful day. Her pale complexion had looked paler in her dull salwaar kameez. Her face had been alive despite the evident lines of tiredness marring a little an almost juvenile eagerness that should have been a permanent element of hers. She had seemed free, unbridled. This one was uncannily coy.

The overtly shiny fake gold and flashing synthetic diamonds that adorned her neck, wrists and ears seemed to cage her. The woman he knew had had one single jewel, the one that possessed no artifice and singly dazzled more than anything he had seen. It was her laughter - cheerful and bold. It was what defined Khushi.

But nothing, absolutely nothing he thought, argued over, theorized or conjured with this skewed logic could counter the physical reality of the form sitting in front of him. It was her. Sitting to the left of a man he dare not see the face of. It was her, looking every bit the ideal bride. It was her, epitomizing beauty and grace for him. It was her, almost too perfect that he could well dismiss all of this as an act and call its blasted idiot of a director to cut the shot and shout pack up.

And yet how could it be her?

What about her unswerving faith in him? What about her relentless pursuit of him despite his dourness? She couldn't possibly write such intimate letters to every stranger she had met on train. Hadn't she said so in one of them that he was special, that she would never indulge random strangers? Her words as he recalled had never assumed a tone of plain friendship, they had always felt like what one would write to one's soul mate. It was as palpable as a universal fact, he had always known but not acknowledged till then. He knew in that moment that she had always reciprocated his feelings for her and had even been vocal about them, it was him who had chosen to ignore, to avoid, to curb, to kill.

Then how could she marry a man who wasn't him? More importantly how could he let her do that? For so long it had been only her trying to push forward this thing that had started between them two years ago, but tonight, it had to be him. The night was an open challenge and she, his to claim.

He could have never cared less about what people around thought of him and his actions, he would cut across the mob. He could see it, in a flash her eyes had clashed with his, a visible shudder had run through her, her eyes had looked empty for a passing moment and then widened with disbelief closely followed by joy. In another moment's time he was in front of her, "I am sorry, I got around a little late, but hopefully not too late." A confused hush fell around as he spoke the words, "We need to stop this from happening." His voice had authority. The blush of her cheeks changed to red embarrassment, she clearly had misgivings about the idea.

It was only fair on her part. But as silly as it had sounded to him the first time he had heard from her mouth, he knew how much she loved drama. Her life was not dramatic, had been her constant complaint in her letters to him. So he had to bare his heart and soul to her, leave it at her mercy here in this madness, surrounded by hundreds of witnesses, he had no other option. He could predict the histrionics that would follow but in his heart he also knew that he would win her acceptance which was all that mattered.

He would have.

If only he had done that night, all he imagined doing every single day since that night two years ago.

If only he had taken steps towards the stage. If only their gazes had clashed. He wasn't a man to be not distinctly seen in a crowd, if only he hadn't made the effort to remain unseen. If only he hadn't been so insecure.

Standing at the foot of the steps that led to the gaudily decorated stage, he had seen her laugh. In a moment the pretence of nervousness had left her when the woman holding the garland to be exchanged had whispered something in her ear, he had seen her truly in that moment, the same unbridled joy which tonight stamped over his heart. It was inflicted on him that she was happy in her present arrangement, she was happy about her marriage to that faceless man who did some ordinary job in the production house Arnav owned. What died in him that night was previously known as hope.

He had retracted. He left a defeated man. He left a man he did not recognize to be him.

-~-

"Arnav?... Arnav?" a distant, familiar voice called. "Arnav..." he recognized the concern in it. "Arnav... wake up damn it. Are you alright? Arnav..." he felt the owner's soft palms press against his temple which were soon replaced by a cloth soaked in cool water. "Arrrnav." He felt the palms cupping his cheeks. With great effort he felt his eyes open and immediately shut due to the bright sunlight streaming through a slit left between two curtains.

He sat up in alarm once he realized where he was.

"Relax Arnav. Lie down. You had been running high fever last night. And this morning... did you... did you see that dream again?" she asked, her brows knitting together in concern.

"What dream?" he lied.

"You didn't see any?"

"No Devyani."

She smiled satisfied. "Good, just relax now. I'll bring you breakfast and coffee."

"No thanks." He said trying to get down, "I need to go home now." She held his shoulders forcing him back on bed, "This is your home too. Please Arnav, for god's sake, let me take care of you, I can't let you go back and get absorbed in work. Your fever will worsen."

He opened his mouth to protest but closed it knowing well it would be futile. He smiled. "Okay." Truth be told, he needed this. He was tired of being alone. Maybe it was time for him to stop running away, face the reality and consider Devyani's proposal. Start a serious relationship with her. But how could he? It had been another two years. Four years since that train journey. And two years since her marriage. She must have already forgotten him. He should have too, but he hadn't. Not that he hadn't tried to forget her and it had showed financially. He wasn't the maverick anymore who wrote and produced art films. His production house had delivered greatest hits of the year. All the big names in the industry would kill to be associated with him. And yet his purpose of working day and night hadn't achieved fruition. He had hoped her memories to blur in all these years, he'd hoped for a day when he'd have difficulty remembering her face, in a fit of rage he had even burned her letters but nothing could abate his yearning for her. He often dreamt of the night of her wedding and woke up alone and miserable. He hadn't even had the courage to find who her husband was and if he still worked for him and if there was a chance of her being in the same city as him, in Bombay.

"Feeling better now?" Devyani asked entering the room, a servant behind her with the wooden trolley carrying breakfast for him.

"Let me check your temperature."

"I am fine Devyani, stop fussing like filmy mommies."

"Really? But in Hindi films it's always the mother ill and needing care." She guffawed.

"It appeals to the masses. Our audience easily sympathizes with the hero when he has a widowed and terminally ill mother." He said all business like.

"Now I know you are fine. Welcome back Raizada." She exclaimed giving him a hug. "And now you'd finish your food like a good boy. I have to go for my shoot. See you then." She said getting up, "and don't dare to move out of this apartment." She added for a good measure.

"No way I am doing that, if I am seen coming out of your apartment at this time the paparazzi wouldn't spare us." He chuckled.

"Well I am all for it. Is actress Devyani Khanna in a relationship with her producer Arnav Singh Raizada? Sound hot, don't we?" she wiggled her eyebrows.

"No."

She shook her head, leaving the room.

"Maa, mujhe chod ke mat ja maa."

"Shut up Arnav."

She left her apartment with a victorious smile. At last Arnav had begun to acknowledge her, after all these years they had taken the first steps towards each other, after all that she had been through, after all that she had done to remove anything that came between them. She had loved him since their days in the Film and Television Institute, Pune but he had always despised and made a joke of her love. He even went out with random girls just to refute her. But she had never felt threatened for she knew they were just casual affairs, not even him becoming one of the most successful producers of the country and new actresses throwing themselves at him for getting a break made her insecure. There had been only one real threat so far, but Arnav surely had forgotten her.

-~-

He had never been the one to lie down idle. After failed attempts at sleep, he decided this rare eventuality of free time could be best utilized in writing the script he had been working on. He was as familiar with her house as he was with his. He made his way to her study and found the typewriter kept on her table and a couple of loose papers.

The train was his dream project. As his last ditch attempt at peace, he had wanted to give the story that had started on train a Bollywoodish happy ending. Devyani Khanna and Narendra Kumar, the two leading actors and hottest pair after Dharmendra and Hema Malini had signed up to play the leads without even a complete script. Such was their faith in him.

He got up after fifteen minutes looking for more papers and rummaged through her drawer but finding only contract papers he walked over to the cupboard. After few minutes of looking around he finally found a stack of papers, while pulling them out his eye caught corner of an envelope of familiar yellow color peeking from under a pile of unread scripts. His heart skipped a beat. What was he thinking? How could it be? He grunted in annoyance at himself, he still remembered the color of her envelopes and worse he thought that this one could be from her? Such idiocy didn't even happen in hindi films. To refute his doubts once and for all, he pulled out the envelope.

The world swirled around him, his heart thumped loudly in his chest, drowning all other sounds. He pulled out the letter already having recognized the petite cursive handwriting in which his old address was written over the envelope. He fell on the carpeted floor beneath him. It was her. And it was recent.

June 12^th, 1982

Dear Arnav,

You know, today is the fourth anniversary of ... well. And strangely, I was again in train today. The difference being, it was from Agra to Delhi. But I was in first class again. The difference being, you weren't my co passenger. I know you would call me crazy when I tell you, that now I travel mostly in first class and not just because I can afford it but mostly because the sentimental idiot that I am, I still hope that one day, when it rains, when I see double rainbows, when the goddesses of fate consider treating me with a bit of their benevolence, I'll find you again. I'll find you sitting on the berth opposite to mine, gazing outside the window, your eyes carrying a distant nonchalance or an emotion that is still mysterious to me. My water bottle would still be leaking and you'd turn and curl your lips in distaste that for the first time in my life had made me conscious of my bearings. But then you would look at me in that way that had made me want to be looked at by no other man but you, all my life. I am sorry if I sound desperate or something. But you already know that, it's nothing new. I wonder if you are still as quiet as you were four years ago and still only nod your head to most of the questions. I wonder if you have begun to laugh openly or still only give lopsided grins. If that's the case as always I'll say it again, life is short Arnav, for once forget all that troubles you or has ever troubled you, spread your arms and laugh, laugh to your heart's content. You have no idea how liberating it is. Sorry for digressing.

And oh, I imagine you in the same white shirt and Khakhi pants, not that I haven't seen you in anything else. You know I like you the most in suit, I saw your latest photo in Stardust's this month's issue. You have become much more handsome than what you were before. But that, I have already told you a number of times. By the way, the filmfare awards this year require a special mention, I went to that stupid movie only because they ran the filmfare reel with it but the morons focus mostly on actors and actresses but thankfully you were there in a number of shots, sitting beside that Devyani Khanna. I don't like her, honestly.

I apologize for writing such a long letter, I know you are very busy and all. If you read this letter (frankly it's been too long and you have never replied, sometimes I wonder whether you really read my letters or not and the thought scares me shitless Arnav) then know that my best wishes are with you on your latest project. (And it stars that Khanna again, please, please for god's sake take Shridevi next time.)

Still waiting for your reply,

Yours

Khushi

PS: Ma's health has improved from the last time I wrote to you.

PPS: Shridevi okay.

He read it, once, twice, thrice... till he couldn't remember the number. He scrambled to the cupboard and pulled everything out searching if there were more. He found, about five, one dated 13^th March, another 14^th February, 28^th February, 4^th January and 18^th January 1982. He devoured them like a starved kid devouring a loaf of bread, a barrage of questions hit him, he felt somebody was literally tearing him apart, his hands shook and startling tears blurred his vision. It was evident from the letters that she had been writing to him all this while, and nothing in what she wrote indicated that she was married or ever had been. Even she signed with her maiden name, Khushi Kumari Gupta, was it possible then that she was... she was still single? And most importantly what were her letters doing at Devyani's residence?

"Arnav Sahib, woh Devyani madam..." said the servant entering the study room with a cup of black coffee for him. He stopped in middle of his sentence and gasped at the state of the room. It was complete mess, and the man sitting on the carpet a greater mess.

Anger boiled Arnav's innards at the mention of Devyani, he stood up tall from his position and took menacing steps towards the servant, his eyes blood shot. "Rajpal" he growled in red furry, "what do you know about these?" he swung the letters in front of him. Rajpal paled, the tray dropped from his hands, the hot liquid falling over his feet. He winced, but Arnav was in no mood for clemency, he grabbed his shoulders and shook him,

"Tell me, what are these letters doing in Devyani's cupboard."

"I... I don't know Sahib." He mumbled.

Arnav dropped his shoulders and fetched Devyani's licensed revolver out from a drawer, and pointed it at Rajpal.

"No Sahib, please don't shoot me." The servant trembled.

"Now you would know how?" Arnav spat.

"Sahib, madam used to bring these envelopes home and ask me to burn them." He said.

"Since when?"

"About two years Sahib, when you used to live in your old bungalow, later she had told me to carry this out. The postman always delivered at 3 O'clock and I would sneak out these letters and hand it to madam. After I had handed her 5-6 letters she asked me to burn them."

Arnav had shifted from his old house in Warley almost immediately after Khushi's supposed marriage. But he hadn't sold the property and a watchman was there 24 x 7, he had checked his post box a few times in hope of some communication from her and then had given up.

But the nagging question was why would Devyani do this, and how did she come to know about Khushi's letters. The two answers struck him almost immediately, he had always been aware of Devyani's excessive fondness for him, it had often bothered him for even after his repeated rejections she had not been deterred. But he didn't know she was delusional to this extent. And about her discovering Khushi's letters. They had worked on several projects together and were good friends at least for him and both frequented each other's house. Just like today he had found Khushi's letters hidden in her cupboard, she must have found them in his drawer. And anybody who read them would know that they were no ordinary letters for he kept them in the diary his mother had gifted him and Devyani knew about that.

He felt bile rise in his throat thinking about the extent of Devyani's psychosis and his loss. He felt ashamed of himself. He was beyond amazed at Khushi's perseverance and her unconditional love for him. It would take getting on his knees and begging her forgiveness, he would willingly do that. He threw away the gun in his hand and flipped the envelope to read Khushi's address again. It was a Delhi address and there was also a phone number below it.

With quivering hands he reached for the phone, he could successfully dial her number only in the third attempt, he heard the phone ring, taking deep breaths he forced himself to calm down. The phone rang for long and then got disconnected. He dialed again, and again and again till finally after many attempts the phone on the other side in Delhi was picked.

"Hello." Said the voice, words froze in his throat. His heart plummeted.

"Khushi." He let out a relieved gasp.

There was silence on the other end, he heard a deep intake of breath.

"Arnav." It was sheer music.

*************

Umm, epilogue anyone? 😆